annus mirabilis
by Bella Ragazza
Summary: A Hem/Zelika fic. Hem muses upon the wonderful things that have occurred in his life, but with that nagging feeling that something is amiss.


**Disclaimer: I claim to own no part of the Pellinor series, nor do I wish to make any money off of my meager prosaic offerings to the fanfic Gods =) **

**My "hello" to fanfic after a several year hiatus. I've missed you.**

A Hem/Zelika fic. Hem muses upon the wonderful things that have occurred in his life, but with that nagging feeling that something is amiss.

[annus mirabilis] by BellaRagazza

when everything is [almost] perfect.

"By the light, Khalil, watch that pillar!" The young boy looked over, startled, a sheen of sweat covering his face and wiry upper arms. This of course led to said pillar toppling down in a tangle of terracotta-colored dust, plaster, and teenage limbs, much humbled by their human limits.

The other Bards laughed as Khalil's brothers, Akram and Noli, ran to their brother's aid. Boisterous mock-fighting and giggling ensued as the carpenters looked on with barely concealed irritation.

"Master Hem, this is outrageous! We are never going to get this stage completed with these children scampering underfoot!" Farouk stamped his boot for emphasis; a mustache quivered in the oppressive heat which made the ground seem to shimmer. The other elder craftsmen, feeling it safe to voice their grumblings, nodded in stoic solidarity.

A tall, olive skinned man strode up to the dais, the nimble and spare build of his childhood filled out to broad shoulders and muscular calf. Thick black hair, the color of Dorn of the northern tribes, was pulled back in a serious manner and tied with a leather thong, but the gray eyes were dancing with mischief. Khalil and Noli, saucer-eyed, looked up from their wrestling to see a pair of brown leather sandals stop mere feet from their noses. Master Hem's sandals.

"Have you forgotten the delights of childhood, Farouk?" Hem smiled, his arms splayed out in an expression of exasperation. "Do you not remember running through the marketplace of Car Amdridh on lazy summer afternoons, waiting for your chance to fill your apron pockets with date cookies and marzipan?"

Farouk blanched, casting down his hammer to the ground, narrowly missing Noli's head. "I have never stolen! You-you tell lies, Bard!" His stomach jiggled under his linen tunic with every point of a fat, hairy pointer finger.

Hem picked the boys up by the scuff of their necks, squirming teen-kittens frozen with fear. He dusted off their tunics and faced them, suddenly serious.

"The Ernani expects that the festival will go off without a hitch, young crows," Hem somberly placed long elegant hands atop brown, skinny shoulders. "And she places this responsibility open you all, the youth of our fair city. The rebuilding of the Turbansk school is a far bigger occasion than I can say; my heart soars on this auspicious day."

The group of young Bards, about twenty or so, all smiled with pride as they listened to Hem's speech. Paintbrushes, costumes, and tools were brandished in a silent war cry. The three trouble makers hung their heads; disappointing Master Hem had quelled them into shamed apology.

Hem's mouth quirked as he surveyed the eager Bards before him. He plucked a mango hunk from his pouch and took a sizable bite, using the remainder to gesture to Farouk as he wiped the fragrant juice from his mouth with his tunic sleeve.

"As for you—let them play. The light knows we've had trouble enough." Hem fixed the older men with a stern gaze, as he turned down the road back to the Ernan.

Hem sat in the courtyard of the palace, watching the large speckled fish dart in the fountain that misted the area with its relieving spray. There were ample wrought-iron benches, sent down from the craftspeople at Til Amon, but Hem sat on a flat rock, sandals forgotten somewhere in the palace, removed out of courtesy but disregarded on purpose.

But that was just the sort of person that Hem was.

Forever favoring rocks to benches, the simplicity of the stall-seller's lentil cakes to sumptuous meals with the Ernani. At twenty-nine, Hem was very much the same person he was when Maerad rescued him from a Pilanel caravan. Just filled out, and a few hand spans taller. He still ate ravenously during Bard meetings, spilled wine on the tablecloth and left his sheets un-tucked in the morning.

Everyone from the Ernani herself to the cooks at the palace knew. Hem was Hem. _Lios Hlaf_. The White Crow. Let him be.

The girls of Turbansk, enchanted by his tall, broad build, light caramel skin, and aquiline nose, whispered behind their books and scarves and gossiped about him endlessly to their friends on rooftops spilling over with fragrant hothouse flowers the color of fireworks.

Hem sighed and trailed his fingers in the water, allowing himself a few moments of brooding. Brooding which seemed incongruous against the vines creeping up the courtyard trellises, offering their spoils of small fat orange fruits that blissfully exploded against the palate. Against the beauty of the rust-colored tiles, cool underfoot despite the summer's heat. Against the plashing noise of the occasional curious koi.

There seemed no room for brooding in the joy of a Turbansk risen once again; the jewel of the South once again set in Edil-Amarandh's crown.

Hem finished his mango with unusual thoughtfulness, mulling over the feel of the meaty pulp, the cool juice as the children building the stage for the celebration of the opening of the School chattered in the distance. It seemed so long ago and yet so close that he was a student himself, sullen and unwilling to learn until his experience with the Healing House changed his life. Hem now was an accomplished Healer, and was currently working on opening a wing for students to apprentice with him in the New Turbansk school.

Everything was it as should be. It had truly been annus mirabilis; the year of wonders. The completion of the school, the heart of Turbansk. The success of Saliman and Hekibel's daughter, Maerad, who was to be a teacher there. The shining reports of his beautiful sister Maerad, who was currently in Thorold at the Busk library, writing of the Treesong. The bountiful harvest.

Except for the void in his heart, a void that would cause a catch in his throat at the oddest moments. A void that caused him to shift restlessly in his sleep, waking up damp and tangled in the murky pre-dawn hours.

"Zelika." Hem mouthed, and the wind stirred the slightest bit, just enough to ruffle stray hairs across his eyes. What would she look like now, in her late twenties? Hem heart twisted as his mind unwillingly created her image—a long and lean woman stood before him, tall with a subtly defined musculature. Shades of bronze and brown. Curls sleek and shiny, the color of pitch. Large luminous eyes, the color of almonds that melted into skin, soft and the color of the bittersweet coffee Boron would sell. Button nose. A trembling mouth, full lower lip quivering with rage and indignation. Hands, surprisingly gentle. Hands that had alternately smacked him and laid cool upon his forehead out of concern.

He had not thought about Zelika in some time, throwing his being into the completion of the Turbansk school. Travelling to Zmarkan to see his family in Murask. Keeping up with his own studies.

What he hadn't realized until this brief moment of solitude was that she was all around him in everything. Zelika of the House of Il Aran. Too grown, too quickly. Haunted and tormented, like he was. The fierce lioness that Hem wished he had kissed, just once. On her trembling full mouth, just at the moment where her eyes blazed and her nostrils flared, ready to admonish him about something. The girl he was sure he was going to marry when they grew up, if they survived. As a teenager he had not known what that had meant, but now, a grown man with desires, he knew. And how he ached for her.

She had taught him how to live with reckless abandon. And also how to die.

If she had been there with him now, Hem thought, she would have yelled at him to stop lolling around, to dust off his tunic and find his sandals. She would fly back and forth in a huff, blustery like the autumn winds off the desert. And he would take her hand, small in his, and pull her down beside him. And maybe she'd protest, but maybe not. And he'd place his index finger on her mouth, its lush softness causing him to catch his breath. And with his other hand he would reach around to the nape of her neck, feeling those silky, springy curls unfurl through his fingers like flowers. She would quiet; tense under his ministrations, searching his eyes with her own.

And with his eyes, he would tell her. How he'd loved her all of those years. Her madness, her feisty impertinence. The way she looked right out of a long, hot bath. Skin gleaming. Hair shining.

And then he would kiss her, right in the middle of the courtyard floor, soft mouth juxtaposed with the hard earth beneath them.

A lone tear coursed down the side of his nose as he snapped out of his reverie and he hastily brushed it away as the gate creaked open and a curious head poked through.

"Master Hem?" It was Resha, a timid and shy Bard that peeped up at him through her long dark locks. "The Ernani requests you at the school; they are preparing to raise the flag."

Hem nodded, jumping up to right himself as the gate squeaked closed. He pictured the school, the twinkling Lamarsan sea in the distance, a fiery sunset. The crest of Turbansk flying free once more, the shadow of evil lifted like an oppressive haze.

He only glanced back once to the flat rock in the courtyard, now populated by a roosting crow. But two souls lingered side by side, restless with youth, dreaming future dreams that would never come to pass.

It was the year of wonders, but the greatest wonder of all was that she was still with him.

Fin.


End file.
